‘It wasn’t my idea,’ Urschel said. ‘It was the Markgraf. He wanted her brought here. None of it would have happened otherwise. Why would I want to bring her here? How would it serve me? It was all his idea. And Donato’s. He said you’d have to be out of the way. The plan was his. He’s the one who wanted you dead. There’s no need to kill me. We can work something out. It was Donato and the Markgraf. I was only a go-between. I can be a very powerful friend to you.’
Wulfric knew he couldn’t dally, but the Gift was taking its hold and clouding his senses. It felt as though he was watching the scene from afar, and couldn’t directly influence what was going on. He took a deep breath to still himself. He wanted the memory of this to be clear.
‘Adalhaid died because of you,’ Wulfric said, ‘and it’s to pay her Blood Debt that you die.’
Urschel’s eyes went wide, the terror of a coward about to meet his end who knows there is no place for him in Jorundyr’s Host—or the equivalent for whatever southern god he worshipped, Wulfric thought.
‘Wait. No,’ Urschel screamed, his hands raised. ‘You’re making a mistake. Sh—’
Wulfric took Urschel’s head from his shoulders in one clean strike. It hit the floor with a dull thud well before the body toppled over to join it. He looked at his grim work with little satisfaction. He suddenly felt weary, as though all the stress of the past days had finally caught up with him. He was not finished, however. The Debt was not yet settled. Urschel’s words had confirmed his suspicion that the Markgraf shared the blame. One more man involved, one more man to kill.
Wulfric had to get away before any more soldiers arrived. He wanted more than anything to go straight to the palace to kill the Markgraf, but the alarm would be raised soon, and the risk was too great. He would fail, and Adalhaid’s Blood Debt would go unpaid. They would spend eternity searching for one another in Jorundyr’s Hall, but would never again meet. Getting to a man like the Markgraf needed proper planning and preparation. He’d disappear, come back when things had settled down.
He searched the bodies for any coins that might aid his flight. There were a few, but not enough to make much difference. He dropped the sword, knowing it would attract too much attention, and wiped any blood he could see from his hands and clothes. After that, he left the house in as casual a fashion as he could muster.
WULFRIC
As Wulfric walked from the house toward the city gate, his mind raced with all the possible pitfalls he might face as he escaped. The message Urschel had received meant the authorities would soon know his name and where he came from. There had not been time to look for it, but it made little difference. To them, one Northlander was much the same as another. They would not know he intended to return to kill the Markgraf, which was the important thing, but when he did come back it would have to be with a different name.
In a week or two, perhaps a month, the commotion caused by the ambassador’s death would have died down, and he could return to finish the job. The delay was an irritation, but dying foolishly before he had completed his task would be far worse.
Wulfric looked over his shoulder every so often, wondering if he would see a charging pack of soldiers coming for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a slender, red-haired woman walking away from him. For the briefest moment, his heart leapt, as it always had when he saw Adalhaid. The sight of the woman felt so familiar that for an instant he thought it was her. The happiness it brought was intoxicating, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. Adalhaid was dead.
He could not stop himself from watching her a moment longer, wishing again for that first flash of happiness the sight of her had brought. Wulfric felt as though his heart was being torn asunder. The woman was carrying several parcels, and she dropped some. His instinct was to go and help her, but he knew he had to leave.
He took one final look at the woman gathering her dropped parcels and allowed himself the brief fantasy that it was Adalhaid, that she was happy and that they could be together. It brought only sorrow. He swore to Jorundyr and Adalhaid he would return, swore that he would take the Markgraf’s life, and then Rodulf’s. He hoped that somewhere, wherever she was, Adalhaid would hear his oath.
ADALHAID
Adalhaid muttered a curse under her breath. She knelt and set her other packages on the ground to pick up the dropped objects. She grabbed the first, a small knitted bear, and brushed it with her hand to clean off the dust. At least it’s not muddy, she thought. Clutching it under her arm, she reached for the second, a cloth doll. It had cost twice what the bear had, but she couldn’t return to the palace with a gift for Petr and not for Aenlin.
The doll had not fared so well as the bear, its light cloth showing the dirt more. She sighed, but she’d be able to clean it. As she stared at it, the hair stood up on the back of her neck. She looked around, expecting someone to be standing nearby, watching, but the street behind was empty.
WULFRIC
Wulfric wanted the city walls to be far behind him before the alarm was raised, but running would only draw attention to himself. He had no idea how the city and its guards would react to the killing of a nobleman, and he did not want to be there to find out.
He walked as quickly as he thought prudent and wondered if it was worth the risk of trying to get his horse and sword back. Once outside the city walls they would be useful, but the delay might lead to his capture.
There was no sign of alarm at the gate when it came into view. Soldiers stood around not showing much interest in anything as people passed through. Wulfric slowed down and tried to blend in with the crowd. In an anxious moment, he wondered if he had managed to clean off all the blood. Killing was a messy thing, and doing it five times was messier still.
He held his breath as he walked beneath the guards’ stares. One step at a time. Wulfric could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stick up. He was sure every eye was on him, and everyone there knew exactly what had happened. He passed into the dark shadow under the wall, then out into sunlight on the other side before he drew breath again.
He continued walking and forced himself not to look back, but could not help a longing glance at the stable building. There was a queue outside. It would take too long to get his horse back and saddle it. The first mile was the most important. When Urschel was discovered, they would surely come looking for him. Five deaths would warrant a concerted hunt for the killer. If the messenger Urschel had called to was in any way competent, he would be back at the house with help by now, and the alarm would be making its way to the city gate.
4
RODULF
Rodulf placed the Stone on the table in the hall of his house, and stared at it. The jumble of symbols etched across its surface were still unintelligible to him, but his mind raced with speculation about their meaning and what the Stone actually did. He was convinced now that it did something. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of wellbeing he had when he held it, nor could he ignore the fact that every opposition he had encountered since possessing it had fallen before him.
Rodulf was under no illusions about his powers of persuasion. They were good—overwhelming when accompanied by violence—but they had never worked with such ease. Priest magic came from tricks and herbs and poultices. If he was being honest with himself, Rodulf didn’t even believe in the gods. Perhaps they had existed, influenced the world once, but they had long since departed and left mankind to its own devices.
When he stared at the Stone, that belief was shaken to its foundation. He leaned forward until his nose was almost touching it. It was old. The edges of the etchings were rounded, not crisp. They were like those covering the standing stone in the warriors’ glade, which could be read only by a few. What events and turns of fate had led to it coming into the possession of the man he had taken it from? Perhaps it was the will of the gods? Perhaps they had chosen to favour him at last? Whatever else it did, whatever else it was, it seemed people did what he said when he had it. That was a powerful tool that he wo
uld be a fool to ignore.
ADALHAID
‘Adalhaid! Look!’
Aenlin ran toward her. She had stitched two pieces of cloth together to make a dress for the doll Adalhaid had bought her. The stitches were wide and out of line, but her young face beamed with pride.
‘Very good, Aenlin. Well done.’
The young girl’s smile grew even wider. ‘I’m going to make britches for Petr’s bear now.’ She ran back to her small sewing box.
Adalhaid watched the little blonde girl—still just shy of her eighth birthday—as she worked on her twin brother’s gift, the tip of her tongue sticking out as she concentrated on threading the dull needle she was allowed to use. Adalhaid wondered what her own children might have looked like, had she and Wulfric been married. The thought brought a lump to her throat. She shook the grief from her head. There was nothing to be gained by thinking on a life she could never have, no matter how much she had wanted it. Her life was in Elzburg now.
AETHELMAN
Aethelman sat in a rocking chair on the kirk’s porch, a heavy bearskin over his lap keeping his old joints warm. He watched people go to and fro. A few had a salutation for him, but most passed by without so much as a glance. There was a time when he’d known them all, and everyone acknowledged him, but that was past, seemingly never to return.
It seemed that every day brought another wagonload of southerners looking to make their fortunes in the Northlands, whether by prospecting, trapping, or trading. With them came the physicians and the preachers and the shopkeepers who were required to satisfy all demand for those needs. The few who could call Leondorf the place of their birth had also started to turn to these new arrivals for their spiritual and physical well-being. Aethelman was not needed there any longer. It made him realise what a terrible thing it was to grow old.
As he watched the villagers—townsfolk was more appropriate now—his thoughts turned to the great men who had once called it home. Giants in shining plate armour with helmets decorated like fierce beasts, they had epitomised the ferocious Northlander warriors so feared in the south. Belgar the Bold, Wolfram the Strong Arm, Angest the Beleks’ Bane—all dead, all supping with Jorundyr in his Great Hall beyond the High Places. His reminiscences were shrouded with melancholy, and he knew it was foolish to pine for what had been, but would never be again.
Now that the floodgates had broken, and southern influence had rushed north into the once impenetrable forests, Aethelman wondered how far it would reach. Were the days of the old gods as numbered as his own? His thoughts drifted to the Stone. It represented the only remaining part of his life that felt incomplete. He comforted himself with the possibility that it had been destroyed in the fire that had consumed the old kirk, but in his gut, he knew that to be unlikely. Someone had found it, taken it. That it was almost impossible they would know what to do with it gave him little comfort. Perhaps they had thrown it away? No. That was too much to hope for. There was something about the Stone, something that ensured whoever took it kept it safe, coveted it even if they never knew what it was, or what it could do.
If he was being honest with himself, Aethelman realised that even he knew little about what it could do, and he was among those with the greatest knowledge regarding Fount Stones. He furrowed his brow as his duty became clear. It was unlikely he would ever encounter another Fount Stone, with his remaining life to be measured in years rather than decades. Few men encountered even one, but perhaps the day would come again when someone did. Perhaps his Stone, if he could ever really have called it his. Like as not the day would come when a young priest would find a Stone, just as Aethelman had done all those years ago. Aethelman would be damned if anyone else had to bear the burden of not knowing what to do with it. He’d spend his remaining days seeking out anything he could find about them.
At the time, it had been centuries since anyone had encountered a Fount Stone, and no one could remember why newly ordained priests were required to spend the first year of their vocations searching the land for them. That in itself was a mystery to which Aethelman wanted an answer. What they were to do if they actually found one was an even greater mystery. So shrouded were they in legend and secrecy, much had been forgotten.
That led Aethelman to the question of where he should begin. The Hermitage, the lonely monastery in the lower reaches of the High Places where young men and women went to train in the priesthood seemed like the best place to start his search, but Aethelman was not overly hopeful of what might be found there. Their itinerant nature did not lend itself to detailed written records. The skills and knowledge of priesthood was handed down by instruction and discussion. They were told the stories of the old gods, of the solemn duties they had given to the priesthood. They were shown how to heal and minister to their congregations. Then, on the day of ordination, they were commanded to fulfil their sacred duty and scour the land for Fount Stones for a year and a day. It was long past time someone went beyond simple obedience, and searched for understanding. Aethelman leaned back in his seat, almost oblivious to the people passing by whether they acknowledged him or not. He had a purpose once more.
WULFRIC
It was getting dark and Wulfric saw no sign of any pursuit. His stomach rumbled—he was starting to feel safe enough to begin thinking about his next meal rather than escape. He had not eaten or slept properly in days, which was beginning to take its toll.
When he heard noise ahead, he retreated to the undergrowth to hide until it passed. The noise—it was voices—wasn’t getting closer. Wulfric moved forward quietly, remaining in cover. The voices grew louder. There were several, all male, all agitated. When the source came into view, Wulfric was glad he had opted for a cautious approach.
Three men faced a fourth, older man, who stood by a horse.
‘Come and take it then,’ the older man said. His hair was short and grey, and he had one of the most impressive moustaches Wulfric had ever seen, thick and carefully styled into points at the end. ‘I’ll be sending you home to your mother in pieces if you do, though.’
Wulfric grinned. The man was not as elderly as Belgar had been, but he appeared to be well beyond the age where he could back up threats like that. Despite his age, he looked an active type and held himself well, like an old warrior or soldier. However, like many men active in their youth but less so in later years, the rot had set in and his waistline was larger than it should have been. Wulfric reckoned the three men with their backs to him were younger and well accustomed to their work. It didn’t look good, and Wulfric felt a sense of injustice at the scene.
‘We don’t want to kill you, old man, but we’re taking what we want, and you can die trying to stop us if you choose.’
The expression on the older man’s face said there was no way he was handing over anything that was his.
‘I’ve given you ample opportunity to turn and run,’ the older man said. ‘Test me and it will end badly for you all.’
The bandits burst into laughter.
‘It’s going to end badly all right,’ the first bandit said.
Wulfric admired the older man’s courage in the face of odds he could not hope to defeat. He reached down and scrabbled around in the dusk until he found a fist-sized rock. He crouched, and prepared to explode from the bushes.
The first bandit rushed forward and Wulfric burst from the undergrowth. He needed only a couple of steps to cover the distance between them, about the same as they needed to get to the old man. They were all carrying wide-bladed short swords, while the older man had a longer-bladed weapon strapped to his waist, which he had yet to draw.
The old man’s eyes flicked to Wulfric briefly. In one smooth move, he drew his sword and whipped its tip across the first bandit’s body. He screeched in pain as the old man stepped forward and cut across the second and then, as Wulfric was drawing close, thrust his sword into the chest of the third, his sword-hand high, with his other held out behind him for balance. He pulled his sword clear and stepped back, ta
king his guard again, his eyes locked on Wulfric.
Wulfric was left feeling ridiculous, his rock held high above him to strike at the now dead bandits. All three of them had hit the ground at the same moment, and the synchronism was not lost on Wulfric; the entire moment of violence had been perfectly executed. The old man was a master, and his warnings were nothing more than an act of undeserved kindness. Wulfric sheepishly lowered his rock and relaxed.
‘Friend or foe?’ the older man asked.
‘Friend, I think,’ Wulfric said. ‘Heard what was happening from down the road. When I saw your trouble, I thought I’d lend a hand.’
‘Unnecessary, as you can see,’ the older man said, cleaning the blade of his sword on a piece of cloth, ‘but gratefully received nonetheless. You’re a Northlander, by the sound of you?’
Wulfric was reluctant to answer, but there was little point in lying about the obvious. ‘I am.’
‘A pleasure to meet you.’ The older man sheathed his sword and extended his hand to Wulfric. ‘Otto dal Rhenning is my name, Graf of Rhenning as was, banneret-errant as is.’
‘Wulfric Wolframson,’ he said. He reached out and took the older man’s hand, and received a firm handshake in return.
‘What brings you to these southern parts?’
There was nothing in dal Rhenning’s demeanour that gave Wulfric cause for suspicion. He was ahead of Wulfric on the road, so there was no way he could know anything of what had happened in Elzburg.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 3
